Free-Wheeling along the Dordogne

or

Recycling Cyrano de Bergerac

By Arthur J. Weitzman, weitzman@neu.edu, Sun, 23 Nov 1997
12:17:29 -0500 (EST)
The bicycles skidded to a halt. There he stood with his
unmistakably immense nose in the afternoon sun in the Place Myrpe of
Bergerac, the arrogant guardsman, poet, lover and lately matine idol
of the silver screen-- Cyrano de Bergerac! Later at the Café Cyrano
over some dry white wine from this picturesque region of France, the
truth emerged.

"C'est dommage," the waiter shrugged. Though the town claimed
him for its most famous son, the truth was prosaic. Born in Paris, he
probably never saw this bustling metropolis spanning the lazy,
meandering Dordogne.

But after two glorious weeks tracing this twisting river through
the most entracing landscape four bicyclists could ever wish, we took
the doleful news with stoical endurance. The Dordogne gave such
bountiful views, leafy lanes, country inns, superb food and friendly
faces, who cared?

The tour began on a fine but cool June morning at the headwaters
of this river at Le Mont Dore, where it is merely a gushing alpine
stream. Could four city-bred, non- athletic types over 40 maneuver
baggage-laden 15-speeds through the back lanes of hilly Perigord, and
would they be on speaking terms at journey's end?

A feast of the eye, a kaleidiscope of romantic river vistas
appeared regularly as we spun along the riverside. Consider our first
"discovery," Chateau de Val, a multi- towered castle strategically
defended on three sides by a large lake and all crenellated and
guarded by thick walls. Another, Beynac, perches seemingly
precariously on a hill at a promontory bend of the Dordogne.

Even more sublime, Monbazillac, a preserved medieval bastion of
thick walls, towers and moat, perches on a hill just outside Bergerac.
It also houses a museum of Cyrano's literary memorabilia, or rather
the momentos of Edmund Rostand, whose 19th-century play breathed new
life into the 17th-century poet and swordsman.

Worth a small detour is Rocamadour, a medieval shrine just
south of the river. Dodging charterbuses at the Hospitalet gateway,
the unsuspecting biker gasps at the sudden sublimity of a mini-Grand
Canyon with the town clinging to one side of the gorge in seeming
defiance of gravity.

In contrast to the pilgrims who once crawled on penitent knees
to the shrine of the "black virgin," we four vacationing cyclists
whizzed down into the now-touristy streets, crammed with shops
carrying effigies of the saint. After a evening rambling through this
maze of walks, alleys, steps, and gothic granite and a good night's
snooze, we climbed back to view roofs, rocks and ramparts waking in
the morning sun.

Does the hot southern sun fry skin and scalp? Try the relief of
cool, dark caverns along the winding tributary, the
Vézére. These caves were the haunts of Cro-Magnon man,
who painted on the walls richly colored animals and 13,000-year-old
hunt scenes in the limestone mazes tunneling deep in the earth at
Lascaux, Font de Gaume and Grotte du Grand Roc. Connecting these
pre-historic galleries is a forest ride along the river chasm as shady
and thrilling as any in Vermont.

Along the Dordogne lies a series of towns and villages like so
many pearls on a string. The first, Argentat, straddles placid water
and impresses the traveler with slate roofs, turrets, steep gables and
wooden balconies jutting out over the river.

Only a bankside dash away--this region boasts fantastic back
roads--nestles medieval Beaulieu, a one-time Benedictine Abbey and now
an intricate collection of stone houses. The 13th-century main
building now accommodates the luxurious Hotel Turenne, where we slept
and ate in baronial splendor.

Further on, Sarlat, a small, bustling city, famous for its
Saturday open-air market, preserves a labyrinthian old section of
tall, medieval buildings, narrow twisty streets and cafe-lines
squares.

Not for us sleeping under the stars or cooking over propane
stoves. We brake at small hotels, B & Bs, and even an occasional
splurge at the sumptuous inn like the Turenne. One fond memory was
dull-sounding Hotel Central in Bort les Orgues, snuggled on the river
and managed impeccably by its ma and pa owner-chefs. Try also La
France in Les Eyzies de Tayac with spacious rooms, antique armoires,
mahagony beds and furniture and delectable patio dining. Sound
expensive? Rooms go in the $50 -60 range. Country living in France
will not break your budget.

Another incentive for a jaunt along the Dordogne lies in
Perigord cooking, which might be called walnut cuisine. Imagine the
surprise for an American palate to crunch into walnuts while downing
snails in creamy garlic sauce (a first course at the Turenne in
Beaulieu). Walnuts came with every meal, beginning with a "vin au
noix" aperitif, a lettuce salad of walnuts in their oil, artichokes
bathed in walnut sauce and noisette liquor to finish. These regional
walnuts grow sweeter than those harvested or imported into the states.

Aerobic experts calculate that a cyclist consumes averagely 300
calories per hour. Hence the voracious appetite after a morning or
afternoon spin. Nevertheless, we were careful not to overdo lunch,
which usually consisted of a picnic of the local "charcuterie" (deli),
a melange typically of savory celery root in mayonnaise, paté
with walnuts, fromage St. Nectaire, goat or blue cheese, and of "pain
de compagne" (country bread). In France profonde as the French like
to call their agricultural sould, the white, fluffy bagaette gives way
to a chewier, dark grain.

Dinner offered opportunity for experiments with Pa's cooking (not
always a pleasant choice in most countries). Even in the ramshackled
old-coaching stop in St. Privat (surely dating from Cyrano's era),
where rain forced us in early, we devoured a superb "St. Pierre" (a
Dordogne fish) served equisitely in pastry shell smothered in a
piquant cream sauce.

Over-laden blackberry bushes lining country lanes in this
southern clime and ignored by speeding motorists provided two-wheelers
both dessert amd refreshment. Those not purloined could be
purchased--June raspberries and strawberries--from innumerable farm
stands. Mixed with "creme fraiche" the berries are transformed into
gourmet treats.

Were the four cyclists still on speaking terms at journey's end?
Not all pedal at the same speeds or wish to conquer this or that hill
by late afternoon or can agree on daily sights. The advantage of each
having his or her own means of transportation translates into greater
flexibility without sacrificing comraderie.

Sometimes lunch brought us together, a lovely feast on picinic
tables, for example, outside of Tauve situated on a brow of a hill
where we chatted against the endless green landscape. Three days
later Tony and Karen bushwacked into Chateau Castelnau while I and
Catherine in lazy moment lingered in alluring Alivignac over a
four-course repast at a roadside temple of gastronomy. In the end we
parted just as good biking companions as ever.

"Poor Cyrano," Catherine had the last word as we boarded the
train to meet our plane home, "born and bred in Paris, he missed out
on the Dordogne!"